Hello and welcome to my blog 😅 This is honestly just a shitshow of things I like. My Pokemon joke is my whole personality now. Header made by the loveliest @geniemillies
Hello I'm Matrix you can also call me Sara whichever is fine (She/Her) and welcome to my blog/Masterlist.
Updated on 19th of April 2025
Masterlist
Fanfiction/ficlets;
The Art of Matchmaking; Tumblr or AO3 (Lucien x Reader, fluff)
A Garden Special; AO3 (Tamlin x Lucien, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst)
A Court of Belonging; AO3 multichapter (Tamlin x OC x Lucien Vanserra, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort - will be updating tags as it goes on)
Foxy Escapades; Tumblr or AO3 (Lucien Vanserra, Eris Vanserra, Tamlin, fluffy, cute, comedic (?)(or at least an attempt at it being a little bit comedic))
Mothers Words; Tumblr or AO3 (Lucien Vanserra with Mama Vanserra, angsty, cute, fluffy (????))
Spring and Night, Forever; Tumblr or AO3 (My first Tamsand fic specifically tailored for the amazing Mathi, little angst, fluffy, cute, smut)
maybe it was real all along; Tumblr or AO3 (Tamlin x Lucien, fluff, modern au)
Can we keep her? Pretty please; Tumblr (Tamlin x Lucien, fluff)
Same idea; Tumblr (Tamlin x Lucien, fluff)
Spring night dip; Tumblr (Tamlin x Lucien, fluff, suggestive)
Could be worse; Tumblr (Tamlin x Nyx, fluff, suggestive)
Just a little nap; Tumblr (Tamlin x Lucien, fluff, cute)
Here for the animals; Tumblr (Tamlin x Lucien, fluff, cute)
don't play with fire; Tumblr (Tamlin x Lucien, suggestive, demon Lucien)
taming a wild animal; Tumblr (Tamlin x Eris, suggestive)
Dreaming of love; Tumblr (Snippet) Tumblr (Tamlin Week) AO3 (Full fic) (Tamlin x Eris, slight angst, fluff, regency au)
growing up loving you; AO3 (Tamlin x Lucien, slight angst, modern au, fluff, hurt/ comfort)
melted and molded for you; AO3 (Tamlin x Lucien, fluff, modern au, suggestive but nothing explicit)
Bird watching; AO3 (Tamlin x Lucien, fluff, cute, established relationship)
Heartless; Beron Vanserra moodboard + drabble/headcanon for SJM Villian Week.
Day 1: Gentleman for Lucien Week; Header + Moodboard and a little headcanon
Day 3: Daylight - Daylight Son for Lucien Week; Header + Moodboard
Day 4: Lover - Pretty Boy Lover for Lucien Week; Header + Moodboard and a headcanon
Day 6: Reputation - Who am I truly? for Lucien Week; Header + Moodboard and a little drabble
Day 7: AU - King of Hell for Lucien Week; Header + Moodboard and a drabble
Needle & King: Lilith Moodboard for Mathi, inspired by her amazing fic Needle & King
Collections;
The Sun, The Fox and all things Lucien; everything I did for Lucien Week 2024
✨Howdy!✨ Shoot me a DM and let’s talk about your ideas ✨ 10% off if you purchase the Worm Special ✨ Details Below ✨
-50% deposit required before commission is *started*
-please allow at least 3 months for the completion of the commission
-Absolutely No Resale
-one revision per commission
-references / mood + inspo boards are welcomed
-PayPal only
-commissions will not be received until the full amount is paid. No exceptions.
Things I can’t do: furries/anthropomorphism
Things I WONT do: Gore. NSFW beyond the 🌶️ of The Bonds That Tie/Quicksilver/Fall of Ruin and Wrath. Absolutely NO non con or under 18 nsfw. Actually, no kids at all, ok? No domestic violence. Basically no nasty shit ok? I’m just tryna draw hot people potentially doing hot things.
✨Worm Special: any characters drawn as a random annelid of my choosing✨
Enfys and Iolin are a part of one of the biggest criminal gangs in the city. To get to them, someone has murdered their precious younger brother and they work together to get to the bottom of this. They'll burn everything down in Tamlin's name, and they won't let anyone stand in their way.
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
I did it! I wasn't sure if I would have time to write something for @tamlinweek, but here it is. Hope you guys enjoy 🤗 This fic is heavily inspired by Mercy for None, Bloodhounds and the company/gang structure comes from the very many manhwas I've read, so accuracy may be questionable.
TWs: Death, grief, blood, gore, torture, etc. Eris and Azriel enjoyers will not have a good time, but I had to do it for the plot.
READ BELOW THE CUT OR ON AO3
The funeral home is too loud. Hushed whispers that float through the air, his name passed between lips that do not deserve to utter it. He doesn’t belong here. They did get one thing right, though—he’s buried in hundreds and hundreds of flowers. It’s what he would have wanted, at the very least, and when haven’t they given him what he wanted?
Too many times.
A man in a sleek, tailored black suit kneels before the altar—before the framed photo of a smiling young blonde. He presses his forehead against the ground, closing his eyes and thinks of nothing but fruitless apologies. In the vault of his mind, he can be weak. He can be a failure. I’m sorry, Tamlin. I should have been there. It should have been one of us, not you.
He kneels there on the ground for a time, offering his deepest respects for the little brother with too little time. Not for long; grief is too dangerous a currency to dispense so openly in the face of prying eyes. The man stands, bowing one last time in the face of happiness he will never see again.
As he leaves the viewing room, he offers no acknowledgement to anyone. That would require someone of any importance in attendance. His father has yet to arrive, so there’s time to try and escape the suffocating atmosphere of formalities. Outside, the weather is a crisp Autumn chill, the kind that turns his breath into spectral wisps. He turns a corner, somewhere out of sight and private, only to find the space occupied.
“Io,” the scarred stranger grunts, a cigarette hanging from his lips. He keeps staring straight ahead, hands in his pocket and head resting against the wall. He sighs.
“Enfys,” the man nods.
Iolin holds his gloved hand out to his older brother, and Enfys obliges, plucking the cigarette out of his lips and passing it to him. It reminds them of an ancient time when it was just the two of them against the world, bloodied and bruised in back alleys because they had something to prove. (What it was, neither can remember.) He can almost see the blood on his knuckles as he takes a drag, basking in the memory. Tamlin had caught them smoking together once and asked if he could try to. Iolin and Enfys rarely ever agreed on anything, but they both shouted ‘no’ in unison. When it came to Tamlin, there was only ever one course of action: do the right thing. (Alternatively, do as I say, not as I do, as the years would demonstrate.)
“You find out who did it?” Enfys tips his head, offering a sideways glance.
“Not yet. My men are on it.”
“Too fucking slow.”
Their words are clipped—brief—and yet, a silent understanding passes between them. Some things no longer need to be said, not when it comes to their baby brother. Protect him. It’s too late for that, so there is only one course of action left. Avenge him.
The two of them could not be more different. Enfys with his brute force and simple mind. He is a rampaging bull, anger wrapped up in a pretty bow. Iolin moves like a shadow, like a knife slipped between the ribs before anyone realizes he is even there. He is meticulous. Neat. Clean. For both of them, Tamlin had been the fertile earth upon which their happiness bloomed. With him gone, all that will remain once they’re done is scorched earth.
***
“Enfys, I can’t let you do this.”
The lobby has been cleared, save for the receptionists and a handful of goons. It’s late. No one else would be here anyway. The eldest son of the Vanserra company stands before him, dressed in a crisp dark blue suit. Its gold buttons gleam rrwunder the light of the hotel chandelier, like a true fucking diplomat. Eris Vanserra has come with diplomacy in mind. Maybe he thinks the blood on his clothes are his—that Enfys bumped his head and became a reasonable man since the last time they met. Maybe the wrong brother showed up, and Iolin would have allowed them more grace.
Enfys smirks, snorting to himself. Who is he kidding? Iolin would have done worse than beat men to death. He pulls out a cigarette, brings it to his lips and lights it. A bad fuckin’ habit, Eris would tell him whenever they were together with nothing more than a sheet pooled around his waist. Enfys never stopped the habit; he doesn’t matter enough to tell him what to do, but it’s a shame.
He exhales, staring at the redhead with dead hazel eyes. He has nothing to say.
“You’ve taken a life for a life. It’s enough.”
Enfys shoves his hands in his pocket, tips his chin up in defiance. When is it enough? How much is a life worth? If Eris can part so easily with one brother, then he must have not been of any value because Enfys wouldn’t have traded Tamlin for the world. Tamlin was the one who was supposed to live out their dreams of normalcy, of choice, of fucking anything that isn’t this life of endless hunger and broken bones.
He closes his eyes, the only place where he can see him again. Just a kid, running down the hall of their too big mansion with a bright red backpack bouncing on his back and his matching red lunchbox in hand. He’s got a tooth missing, but that doesn’t stop him from grinning like a fool. He pushes his messy, sweaty hair out of his face. Enfys, look, look! Little Tamlin says, showing him the grass-stained jersey. I made the team!
Did you use my moves? Enfys would grin at him, his amusement might look like mockery to anyone else, but Tamlin knows better.
Um, you’re not supposed to push people. It’s not sports-like.
Enfys scoffs. That’s loser talk. Now, what you’ve got to do is grab a handful of dirt—
Stoooop, I don’t wanna be mean. D’you wanna play?
Dunno, since I’m mean and don’t know all the rules and all. He’s never been on a team or anything. Delinquents don’t get much opportunity. Even if he did, what the fuck is he gonna do in a trash school with shithead teammates?
It’s okay, I’ll show you how to do it properly.
Enfys exhales, and the smoke burns on its way out. Yeah, properly. That’s all they wanted for Tamlin—a proper life. Some wife and kids. He could make a living kicking a ball around and shit. Yeah, yeah, that’s the least he deserves. He laughs to himself, making himself look crazier than he already does with his dress shirt stained red. Only a good kid would try and teach a gangster how to do things the right way. Tamlin was always like that. He was good. The Vanserra Enfys killed doesn’t even match up. So, no, it isn’t enough.
Opposite him, Eris sighs and he motions to his guards to go. Probably to extract one of six remaining Vanserra brothers. Enfys will find him eventually, it’s all only a matter of time. Left alone, Eris unbuttons his jacket and sets it over the back of a plush lounge chair. Underneath, he wears a holster. He unsheaths a karambit knife, then readies himself for the inevitable.
“Killing won’t bring him back.” Eris tries one last time, but his face wears his resignation. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
“Apologies won’t bring him back, either.” Enfys tosses his cigarette on the ground, snuffing it out with the tip of his dress shoes. “For what it’s worth, I hated you the least.”
“Likewise.”
With that, Enfys puts his hands up and charges.
Each step hurts. Each step is accompanied by a grunt. He’s limping badly, and the blood pouring out of his side won’t stop. Fuck, he needs a drink. Badly. He knows of a place where he can get stitches as a bonus, if he can make it there. Also, what stupid fucker designs grand staircases in modern day. Shit’s outdated.
There are bodies everywhere, all of them dressed in the same dark suits—a costume to match the farce that are their businesses. Their capital is blood, nothing else. Money is a burden they have to carry to survive in this damned world, and even then, it’s not enough. Enfys makes a face at the corpse with its head crushed and its limbs bent in dead angles. Fall damage is never nice, but throwing a man off the mezzanine was convenient. Anything to trim the numbers.
The front door opens, and a single man enters, his hair as bright copper as the rest of them. You can pick a Vanserra out of a crowd any day. What’s harder is distinguishing between most of them, except this one. This one’s different, the same way that Tamlin was different. Lucien Vanserra’s eyes widen in fear at the sight of the carnage, his expression as soft as ever. He wasn’t made for this life either, but his brothers aren’t as gracious as Enfys or Iolin. Six of them and none of them could ban together to make one life worthwhile. How shameful.
Enfys makes his way towards the young man, and to Lucien’s credit, he doesn’t back away. He holds his ground, steeling his expression in that way that kids do, imitating the adults around them. He’s not intimidating, and Enfys can sense his fear despite his best efforts to hide it.
Enfys pauses in front of him.
“You mind?” He grunts, offering his left pocket. He shows his free hand, the one that isn’t pressed against the freeflowing wound. At the centre of his palm, there is a vertical gash. It goes straight through the other side, rendering Enfys’ hand somewhat useless.
Lucien obliges, fishing out the carton of cigarettes and his lighter. He pulls out the last one, raises it to Enfys’ lips and carefully lights it, as if he’s done this time and time again. “It’s your last one,” he points out.
Fuck, maybe I do smoke too much, Enfys muses to himself.
“Is there anyone left?” Lucien’s throat bobs, nervous.
“You. Your father.” Enfys grunts.
“Right.” Probably not the best outcome for Lucien. Their fathers are cut from the same cloth. It would have been better if Lucien was the only one left. Won’t be long now. Once word gets around, war is sure to break out. Beron Vanserra won’t let this stand. “Are you going to kill me?”
Enfys looks Lucien up and down. “No.”
“Why?”
Not even Eris had been spared, and everyone knows Enfys is close to the eldest Vanserra. Eris had stood in his way, the rest were culprits or accomplices. Lucien… Lucien is different. “I saw you at the funeral. Every day.”
That would have meant something to Tamlin. Enfys respects that. This will be Lucien’s one moment of mercy. It’s up to the Vanserra heir whether he wants to push his luck against Enfys. Injured or not, Enfys will fight until the end.
Enfys keeps moving, dragging himself to the exit.
***
It is a fatal mistake, repeated time after time, to make assumptions about a grieving man. An angry man searches for something to douse the flames of rage, but ultimately, there is relief at the end of the line. A mourning man has nothing to lose. He can cover the dark pit in his chest as much as he wants, pretend to forget it over time, but it will always be there, gnawing away at him with thoughts of what will never be again.
It is a fatal mistake, repeated time and time again, to think that Iolin would not get his hands dirty.
After Enfys’ extremely subtle visit to the Autumn Hotel, a subsidiary of the Vanserra Corp., rumours traveled across the city and its underground that their family was out for blood. It’s only natural that other gangs will start to move against them. Iolin’s greatest weapon is time; the more he has, the better he can prepare and with each passing hour, the chances of gaining the upper hand over him shrinks.
“You know, I’ve always respected you,” he says, kneeling before his captive, right between his spread legs. Each ankle is bound to the chair, and the man’s hands are tightly bound behind his back. “So, you know it isn’t personal. No, that’s not true. It’s personal this time.”
Carefully, Iolin cuts the man’s black jeans at the seam, exposing his tattooed legs and leaving him in nothing but his black briefs. Iolin has discarded his own jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt and on this rare occasion, he has even removed his tie. Each item of clothing is treated with care, neatly folded on a table in the corner of the room. This time, though, unlike any other time before, Iolin pulls off his gloves. Beneath them, a litany of scars and mottled skin. A matching set to his captive. Funny how that works. They’re cut from the same cloth, and between these two, it’s just shy of literal.
“I hear they’re calling you the Spymaster, now.” Iolin discards the shredded pieces of denim on the ground. “Or was it Shadowsinger? It’s a testament to your skill, really, earning a nickname. You’ve become a legend.” He cleans his glasses and replaces them on the bridge of his nose. “Isn’t it ironic, though? A spy and an assassin being renowned. Defeats the whole purpose of the profession.”
He moves around the decrepit room—one of many in a forgotten, abandoned warehouse—and fills a bucket with water. He mixes other things into it, talking all the while.
“I should thank you for coming to me. I imagine Sieffre wanted to head us off before we caused more damage. No need to answer, it’s not an actual question,” he rambles, waving the shadowsinger off. Iolin doesn’t expect Azriel to answer regardless. Die here or at the hands of their masters, it’s all the same. At least, if he guards his secrets, he can die honourably, like a loyal dog. Torture won’t do anything for this man. He will sit there and bear it, and Iolin is fully aware of this. They were allies once. Hell, he was even a fucking pupil. How things change quickly.
They never gave Iolin a nickname. His talents are too elusive to even name.
Iolin digs his phone out of his pockets, squatting in front of Azriel and showing him footage of a young woman gagged and bound to a chair, a mirror image of him. Although, Iolin hadn’t bothered to gag Azriel. He can’t give out information if his mouth is shut, right?
The sight of her makes Azriel’s nostrils flare, and his jaw ticks ever so slightly. Such subtle tells of fear, panic and anger. Another man wouldn’t have noticed, but Iolin picks people apart looking for weaknesses other than the physical.
“Everything I’m going to do to you is going to be done to her.”
“She has nothing to do with this.” Azriel says calmly, unable to hold himself back. Ah, the impulse of youth.
“The same could be said about my brother, and yet, you still sold information about him. Us.”
“We didn’t kill him,” Azriel’s lips twist into a snarl, disgusted at the accusation. ‘This time’ lingers in the air because Velaris is more than capable and willing to eliminate those that stand in their way of power.
“Do we blame the gun or the one who pulled the trigger for murder?”
It’s a trick question. You use the gun to find the suspect, and then suspect to find every single soul involved slowly. Painfully.
“Let her go.” He’ll tell Iolin anything. It’s in the tone. Though even-keeled, Iolin can taste the desperation.
“Let’s begin.”
Beneath a sharp blade, the skin splits with little pressure. Iolin doesn’t take much, just a thin layer. Then he dips his hands in the bucket, pulling out a cloth soaked with the mixture and lays it on the wound liberally. The salt-and-citrus burns, and although Azriel does not scream—he knows better, they all do—the knowledge that this will be done to his little sister tortures him even more.
Secrets spill like blood, pieces of a puzzle Iolin is quickly putting together.
After a while, the words become nothing more than that. Words. Meaningless, and without their usefulness. Azriel is blabbering, offering anything he thinks can save his sister, but Iolin gives him no reassurance back. He gives him nothing. That is the difference between experience and talent. Iolin may be worth nothing more than this, but he does it well. With every fibre of his being. Yet, even for a man like him, it isn’t easy to hurt someone he could have cared about—someone with all the makings of a friend, with shared experiences and a similar cage. They understood each other once. Maybe even now, still.
When Azriel’s voice turns into incoherent desperation and threats, Iolin goes somewhere else. His mind roots itself in purpose.
It doesn’t always rain on bad days, and that should be a crime. Tamlin sits there, knuckles bright crimson and blood freckles his cheek. He’s sitting in an alley, bodies surrounding him and his head hangs heavy with an emotion Iolin pretends not to understand. Iolin kneels by his little brother.
You alright? He asks, resting a hand on Tamlin’s broad shoulders.
I-I didn’t mean to.
Green eyes look up at him in grief. A groan escapes one of the battered and bruised. They aren’t dead, so what’s the problem? Enfys would have hauled Tamlin onto his feet and told him to get over it, it’s a dog-eat-dog world, but Iolin isn’t like that.
What happened?
Tamlin’s fist clenches and releases, anger passing through. I saw them bullying this kid. I don’t know why, I just reacted.
They taught Tamlin to fight, but only enough to defend himself. They might keep him out of this criminal life, but sometimes the dark will reach out to him. Iolin would never expect to see Tamlin in a fight, but he’s not entirely surprised, either.
Sounds like you did the right thing. What’s wrong?
Tamlin silently struggles with the answer. I went too far, is what he settles on. I didn’t like… myself like that. I don’t want to hurt people.
From inside his suit pocket, Iolin produces a monogrammed handkerchief. He presses it against Tamlin’s knuckles, wiping away the blood to see if he’s hurt. Tamlin is always putting others before himself; he’s picked up the pieces of Iolin and Enfys time and time again. He is their mother’s keeper, the one best placed to give her love freely. She doesn’t see their father in his eyes; he doesn’t wear his marks, whether by tattoos, bruises or scars like they do.
You can always ask us for help, you know.
No, I don’t want you guys to hurt people on my behalf.
The memory dredges up old wounds. Tamlin’s voice wrought with agony. He’s upset, having stumbled upon Enfys and Iolin’s latest handiwork. (Bodies, bodies, bodies and so much blood. Only pictures, but that’s already too much.) When will it be enough? He has screamed at them, cheeks tear-stained and face red. Iolin doesn’t remember if he was upset on behalf of the victims, or on behalf of them and what they were made to do in their father’s name.
The body before him is unrecognizable now, and Azriel has lost all sense except for one request: don’t hurt her, she doesn’t have anything to do with this. Swearing at Iolin works as well as pleading with him. There is nothing Azriel can say or do to deter him.
“Sieffre will kill you for this,” Azriel spits, words slipping through bloodstained teeth.
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Iolin responds.
He presses the knife against Azriel’s throat, directly above his pulse. A sob breaks past the younger man’s lips. This is how she dies, then? Broken, bleeding and not understanding why it’s happening to her. (Just like Tamlin, who would have sat there alone, hand weakly pressed against the river running down his neck. At least, he had the chance to fight back.)
“You’ll never know peace,” Azriel’s voice frays with anger and fear.
“I know. That was never my destiny.”
The end comes with a slice and a wet gurgle. Iolin stays until the light drains out of Azriel’s eyes, but not before picking up his phone and calling his associates.
“Let her go.”
He shows Azriel that his sister is unharmed. She was never a part of this, and Tamlin wouldn’t have wanted her caught in the crossfire. Her freedom is because of him.
***
The empire must burn. All of it.
Neither of them think about where to go after because there is no after. Every single soul in this damned company, and the others haunting the underbelly of their city, needs to go. Iolin watches Enfys drag himself into their company building, stained with copper and gray—ash and blood. These are the colours of their world, so different from their brother’s bountiful green and gardens of hope and dreams.
“You look like shit,” Iolin says, smoking. “And you’re late.”
“Fuck off. Gimme a smoke.”
“Buy your own.” Iolin snaps, and yet he hands over the cigarette to Enfys. “I think you should sit this one out.”
“And miss the best fucking part?” Enfys snorts. He’s all hard-edges and sharp teeth. Even broken, he’s sure to cut someone on the shards of what remains. “Plus, you can’t beat him without me.” Which is true. Iolin is a spry and agile fighter, but both Enfys and their father—hell, even Tamlin—have brute force on their side. The problem is Enfys can’t beat their father, either. Their father is too smart, too clever and too experienced for either of them alone. The two of them are fragments of the man, parts torn out and ruined with their mother’s weakness (whatever that was). Tamlin was something else. Maybe that’s why their father hated him the most.
(Tamlin was free, and that’s one thing even their father could never have.
Even in death, he is free.)
Iolin slides under his brother’s arm and helps bear his weight. Enfys can barely walk, but they don’t talk about it as they step into the elevator. There’s no convincing the other to back down. It’s not like Enfys didn’t notice Iolin’s blown pupil, and how his words have taken on a slower cadence. It’s slight, but he has known him ever since he was born. This isn’t something he’d miss.
“I knew that fucking brat would be the death of us,” Enfys snarls, but there’s no teeth to his words. They both loved that damn kid.
“You make it sound like we didn’t have a choice.”
Relationships are something to be avoided in their line of work—it’s far too dangerous to get anyone involved in this lifestyle. Lovers are one thing, but a partner? No, all they had was each other… until Tamlin came along. He was so small, so much younger than the two of them and so innocent. To say that they could do anything other than love and protect him is a lie; he was all the best parts of them, and he showed them sides of themselves that they didn’t know. Iolin loves flowers, he’d noticed when he spent too much time admiring the bouquets Tamlin would bring home for their mother, touching the soft petals and admiring the colours and delicate scents. Enfys was never one for academics, having spent most of his (high) school days getting into fights and selling drugs behind the building. Only when Tamlin was old enough to bring home homework did Enfys realize what he missed on. His diligence could apply to something other than bashing brains in. To think, someone like Enfys could help nurture someone like Tamlin.
The elevator doors open to the corporate office—an entire floor dedicated to their father. He sits on the edge of his mahogany desk, nursing a cigarette between scarred lips. His long hair has been left unbound. His suit jacket hangs on the back of his chair, and his rolled up sleeves reveal muscular forearms. For his age, he’s in incomparable shape.
“Is it done?” He asks them, voice rough like gravel. “You’re not looking too well,” he says to either of them. To both of them.
“Fuck you,” Enfys spits.
“Not quite,” Iolin replies at the same time.
Two brothers, so different and so very much the same.
“Why did you do it?” Iolin continues.
The old man tilts his head, breathing in the cigar smoke. It fills the room. “It was a matter of time. Velaris and Vanserra were bound to merge against me, so I decided to head them off.”
“No,” Iolin says patiently, as if guiding a child towards the correct line of questioning. “Why did you involve Tamlin?”
Their father shrugs. “He wasn’t worth anything, except motivation for you two. A distraction at best.” He smiles at them, now. “Now, he’s been more useful than ever.”
“You fucking bastard!” Enfys pushes himself off his brother, barreling straight towards the man who has tortured them all their lives. Beating the shit out of each of them, their mother included until she couldn’t stand it anymore, living with him. Tamlin was all they had of her; she entrusted him to them.
He’s too slow, too injured, but adrenaline pushes him. He throws his entire weight at their father who sidesteps him, and throws a heavy punch at Enfys’ face. The sound of flesh against flesh is loud, and the sound of Enfys’ head hitting the marble floor is even louder. Enfys groans, spitting blood.
“Come on. Come finish whatever you think you started,” their father motions at Iolin. He thinks he knows how this is going to end.
***
It’s cold.
The blood pooling beneath him loses its heat. He can’t bring himself to move or roll out of it. Too tired? Probably dying. Iolin stares up at the ceiling, seeing nothing more than a blur. His glasses were shattered in the altercation and he’s gone deaf in one ear from the gun their father pulled out at the last minute. At least, nothing hurts anymore. That’s a terrible sign.
“En, you dead?” He manages, his voice a pained whisper.
“No,” Enfys groans, laying face down on the ground. “He’s going to be so fucking… disappointed.”
Iolin nearly laughs, coughing up blood immediately. “We’re not going to the same place he is, s…s… stupid.” Ah, shit. Slurring is an even worse sign.
No, where they belong is somewhere far below where the scum of the earth ends up.
“You’re… stupid. Should’ve left.”
“F-F-Fu—” Iolin struggles to find the words. He feels his brain fall apart, lose all connection with his body and float off on its own.
“First one to die… is a… bitch.”
***
Birthdays belong to them. The ocean breeze cards through their hair, varying shades of brown to blonde. There’s nothing other than the sound of waves and laughter. It’s peaceful.
“I can’t believe you fucking waited until you were eighteen to drink.”
“It’s illegal!”
“Look at this fuckin’ goody two shoes! You see this, Io? He’s making us look bad.”
Iolin rolls his eyes and digs through the cooler they brought with them. “You do that for yourself just fine, En.”
Enfys makes a rude gesture to his younger brother over Tamlin’s head. The young blonde sips sheepishly at his beer, cheeks reddened. He loves his birthday; it’s the one day dedicated to him. His father may pretend he doesn’t exist, but on this day, he feels like he has the whole world in the palm of his hand.
“Okay, okay, enough of this watered down shit. We got you the good stuff,” Enfys pluck Tamlin’s beer out of his hand.
“Hey! I wasn’t done with that.”
“Your choice, T. Champagne or whiskey?” Iolin holds up his choices.
“It’s the good shit from dad’s cabinet.”
“He’s going to be so pissed,” Tamlin worries, but his brothers wave him off.
“We need to teach you drinking games so you don’t show up to college parties looking like a bitch.”
“En!”
“What? You’re an adult now, I can swear.”
“You’ve always had a potty mouth.”
“Io, did dad drop Tam when he was a baby? How did he grow up to be so lame? He’s lamer than you.”
“I resent that,” Iolin drones. He offers Tamlin a flute of champagne, deciding to start him off easy. He gives Enfys a glass too. “Happy Birthday, little brother.”
“Happy Birthday, kiddo,” Enfys grins, raising his glass. “Make a wish.”
“Okay,” Tamlin says and closes his eyes. He wishes for more days like this.
"For someone with a heart of stone, yours is certainly soft these days."
"Though you have a heart of stone, Tamlin, you certainly keep a host of fear inside it."
I wanted to do that one cracked mask trend finally, one million years later ofcofc.. 🧍♀️
That’s a wrap on the first day of Tamlin Week and we have a total of 23 submissions! Thank you to everyone who participated, it’s always a joy to see the Tamlin community coming together to celebrate our High Lord 🎻.
If we missed your submission, please do let us know so we can reblog and add you to the list!
➵ General Tamlin
- Danse Macabre by @songofthesibyl
- Lonely Silence by @shi-daisy
- Warband Limericks by @tamlinmybeloved
- Mournful Melody by @pretty-boy-saint
➵ Tamlin/Lucien
- In the Key of Spring by @eldritchguava
- A poem a day by @eldritchguava
- A True Poet by @umthisistheonlyusernamenottaken
- La Clemenza di Tamlin by @maladattata
➵ Tamlin/Original Character
- Quiet Days by @wisewizardwriting
- Impromptu by @lzrsaugust
➵ General Tamlin
- Poetry Exemption by @copypastus
- Writing Poetry in Peace by @lucychanart
- Tamlin and His Fiddle by @ahobbitlassinthespringcourt
IT'S THE EVE OF TAMLIN WEEK! AND WE HAVE SOME GOODIES...
The snow has melted, the sun is out, the birds are singing and the flowers are blooming. Spring has arrived, and it's nearly time to celebrate our favourite High Lord!! 💃💃💃
Check out the Tamlin Week rules & prompts, if you haven't already!
We also have some treats for you to enjoy all throughout the week!
ASK TAMLIN
Starting today, until the end of Tamlin Week, send us an ask and we'll ferry it directly to our High Lord. He can't believe there's a whole week dedicated to him, so it's only natural he makes an appearance and chats with you all!
CALANMINE, A FAN-MADE ACOTAR DATING SIMULATOR
Some of you might remember the awesome game @copypastus, @thrumugnyr, @highlordofkrypton, @zenkindoflove and @praetorqueenreyna created together.
Get to know and flirt with some of Prythian's most famous faces as you discover the many hidden surprises that await you in CalanMine - a free and fully playable ACOTAR Dating Simulator Game.
For more information, visit the official @calanmine blog!
TAKE YOUR PICTURE WITH THE HIGH LORD
Another amazing gift from @copypastus from last year; she put in so much hard work that we can't help but share it again! Check out the picrew she made with unique assets to create yourself, your favourite characters or your OCs next to High Lord Tamlin!
Make sure to tag both us and @copypastus -- we want to see your creations 😊
CREATOR SUBMISSIONS
We are still accepting creator submissions! Celebrate your favourite Tamlin Community members all throughout this week. We'll keep posting them, even during the event. We want to celebrate you -- without you, we wouldn't have such a wonderful community without each and every one of you.
On behalf of the moderating team, we hope you enjoy!
